


speak now, my precious whispers

by humanveil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 06:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20502587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Reminders.





	speak now, my precious whispers

**Author's Note:**

> flashfic for the prompt _grave_. it’s been an age since i wrote these two, and i miss them dearly. hope you enjoy it!

Grass, damp and muddy, tainting expensive leather. The early morning horizon: overcast, again, a hint of a storm lurking in the clouds. It’ll rain later, Draco knows. If only to spite him. 

Scorpius sways. He’s only small, smaller than Draco had been, at that age, and the wind has picked up, recently. Large gusts. Volatile. Enough to knock you off your feet if you’re light enough to let it happen. Draco crouches, one hand planted on his son’s back, the other brushing the little boy’s stomach. Steady, he thinks. Just a few minutes. 

The visit won’t be long. They never are, especially not when Scorpius is with him. 

The headstone is a blasted thing. Grey stone, the engraving simple: hundreds of others just like it lining the yard. Name, date. Here lies so and so. _A brave man_, Potter had insisted, and Draco scoffs at it now. The dip of letters, chipped and dark. Not everyone had agreed, of course, and it was vandalised as a result. They’d fixed it, naturally, but it’s hard to keep up when it happens near-constantly. Destroy, repair, destroy, repair, destroy, repair... it’s exhausting. Sometimes Draco wonders why anyone bothers. He knows for a fact that Severus wouldn’t’ve cared either way. He can say with certainty that he wouldn’t have agreed with this _brave man_ business. Out there. Open. So utterly _Gryffindor_. It makes him sick, sometimes. 

But he’s not here for that. 

It’s not an anniversary or anything like it. Draco doesn’t visit on anniversaries—likes to avoid the masses, avoid the dates where anyone can watch. Engage. He’s always preferred his privacy, especially in matters such as this. 

The thing is, Draco knows Severus more intimately than most people who pass here. When he thinks of him, it’s not the way people would expect: he’s not Professor Snape, cold and commandeering, not the heartless right hand of He Who Must Not Be Named, and under no circumstances has he ever bloody been _Dumbledore’s Man_. No. Draco knows Severus Snape in terms of sensation: the press of teeth to his collarbone, the edge of a nail, sharp as it scrapes over skin, the gentle touch of cracked lips, the warm gust of wet breath, the guttural groan of unimaginable pain, the lingering twitch after a bout of torture, the scar along his left thigh, his right wrist, the nape of his neck, the stretch of his shoulder, the dip of his chest, the lines of his back; knows the smell of smoke and dragon’s blood, the touch of tongue, the scratch of fabric, the way his body folds in the night. These are the memories he keeps, sacred and intimate. This is the reason he visits—a refreshers course, if you will. In all the ways he knows a dead man. 

_Reminders_. 

Potter had given his child that ridiculous name, and Draco had tossed the paper in the fire when he’d read it. Open, _out there_, he thinks again. Stupid. Even if he’d had the same idea. At least he’d been subtle about it. 

Hyperion. When he tells people his son’s name, they chalk it up to tradition. After all, why wouldn’t it be? It fits well enough; the Malfoy linage full of things just like it. Draco lets them think what they want. The truth, really, is just for him. 

_Sensation. An arm around his waist, a murmur in his ear, the dusty interior of Spinner’s End lit by a fire as a book sits laid out before him: the Prince family tree, spanning generations. _

Scorpius’s fingers twist in his sleeve. Tug. Light, but enough to get his attention. “Food?” he asks, hopeful, and Draco smiles as he gathers the boy in his arms, lips pressing to silky hair as he stands. 

_Reminders. _


End file.
